show me yours (and i'll show you mine)
by thesoundingsea
Summary: Killian gets a peek at Emma's underwear and gets a little too curious for his own good. Smutty oneshot with a hint of feels.


**This was a prompt for Killian getting a little peek of Emma's underwear. It started as a drabble and sort of got out of hand. Not sorry. ;)**

**Hope you like it!**

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"Swan, what is this?"

Emma is bent over the sink washing dishes and doesn't realize they're showing – his touch is nothing more than a simple brush of his fingers across her lower back, right above the waistband of her sweatpants, but the way he ever so slightly tucks his index finger under the elastic of her underwear, the way his skin slides warm and a little rough over hers sends sparks through her blood just the same, and despite the blush in her cheeks she glances back over her shoulder at him and smiles.

He doesn't see the smile, because he's still too busy staring at her ass, brows furrowed – she can see the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, and she knows the wheels are turning in his head. Part of her is pretty sure that whatever he's thinking is indecent, but the other part of her is dying to know what it is _because _it's indecent.

"This bit of red there, love – what is it?" he says, giving her panties a little tug before letting them snap against her skin.

"It's underwear, Killian."

She pulls her sweatpants up to cover them, getting the waistband a little wet with dishwater, and then resumes her task. He's still staring at her, and she can feel his eyes on her back burning a hole through her, but she refuses to give in because she's not _ready_ for that part of their relationship yet. They've just gotten to the hanging-out-in-pajamas-without-feeling-weird part, and she's comfortable with it. It's easy. He told her he would give her time, and she's going to _take_ her time, because she knows that sex won't make things easier, and she _needs_ easy right now.

But _damn_ she wishes he'd stop staring at her like that.

"They're red."

Emma tries not to laugh at the incredulous way he says it, reminding herself that ladies' undergarments have come a long way and he probably hasn't seen anything quite like them before.

"Yeah, they come in lots of colors."

Killian is quiet and thoughtful for a moment.

"Let me see them?" he asks.

Like it's not a big deal.

Like he's asking her how to work the microwave or change the channel on the television. The same placid curiosity, the same smile on his face when she dries her hands and turns around to face him. She wonders how they can be talking about her underwear so calmly, and then she sees it in his eyes – the fire, dark and blue and intense enough to turn her to ash with a look, so she's actually _glad_ that his gaze is focused on her crotch.

(Well, maybe not _glad_, it gives her ideas, him looking at her like that with that obscene expression on his face.)

"I'm not going to show you my underwear, Killian."

He looks up and pouts, sticking out his bottom lip while his eyes sparkle with merriment. "Why not?"

"Because I'm not just going to _show_ you my panties!" she says, hiking her sweatpants up just a little bit more and folding her arms across her chest.

His grin broadens, and he takes a step closer, his hand hanging at his side, fingers twitching like he's considering…_things_.

(She'd be lying if she said she isn't considering _things_, too.)

"They're called _panties_?" he says with a delighted laugh. "That's adorable, Swan. Let me see them?"

"No, Killian."

Another step closer.

"I'll see them eventually, love."

Emma snorts and rolls her eyes – _not_ because she feels dizzy and needs to look away – and gives him a shrug. "You're that confident, are you?" She resists the urge to lean her cheek toward his hand when he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"I am."

He winks and presses his lips to her forehead, and the subject is dropped. They snuggle up on the couch and watch Game of Thrones, Killian falls asleep halfway through, and she goes upstairs to bed thinking that the subject of her underwear has been officially dropped.

She should have known better.

. . .

Two days later they're walking back to his ship from her parents' house after dinner, and he slowly lets his hand drift to her ass. She gives him a playful slap, but doesn't fight it when his hand quickly resumes its place, his fingers tracing around the back pocket of her jeans. He's not grabbing it, just running his hand over it, almost like he's feeling for something. Emma isn't about to complain, because for all his constant innuendos she still appreciates being _wanted_ – but it's strange, the way his fingers trace over the curve of her butt to where it meets the top of her leg, and then back up to her doesn't think anything of it, at first, but there's something deliberate about the way his hand is moving, and he's not talking, which means he's _thinking_, and thinking has a habit of getting him into trouble.

"What are you doing?" she says, as his touch becomes a little more purposeful.

(If he wasn't grabbing before, he _definitely_ is now.)

"I'm being affectionate, darling," he says, and then he's guiding her back against the brick wall of one of the shops on Main Street. Fortunately it's late and the shops are all closed at this hour, but anyone could see them here so Emma tries to keep his hand from wandering anywhere improper.

She fails rather quickly, though, because suddenly his hand is down the back of her jeans, cupping her ass, with nothing but a thin layer of cotton keeping his skin from hers. She shivers in his arms as he leans closer and brushes his nose over her ear.

"Killian, what are you—"

"What color are they?" His voice is low and quiet, and Emma's heart lurches in her chest. She has to swallow a lump in her throat before she can respond.

"What are you talking about?"

"These undergarments of yours, love. They're bloody scandalous, do you know that?" he says, twisting her panties between his fingers until they're riding up a little, and he lets out a heavy sigh that sounds far too indecent when he finds bare skin. He lets his hand slide down until his palm is touching her, fingertips tracing over the crease at the top of her leg as he leans into her, his body radiating heat that makes Emma feel like she's being crowded.

She takes a deep breath and puts her hands on his chest, ready to push him away. "Killian, someone could see us."

He rubs his nose over her cheekbone, then down the side of her neck where he breathes her in, and Emma tries not to visibly tremble. "Satisfy a man's curiosity, Swan."

"This is not the place, Killian."

Chuckling, he gives her neck a gentle bite, and then presses closer to her and lets his tongue soothe the skin where his teeth just were. "Please?"

"White," she breathes, and he lifts her toward him just enough that his hips press warm into hers, and this time it's Emma's turn to sigh as her body melts into his, soaking up his heat. "They're…_fuck_, they're white."

She feels him smile against her neck and he kisses her, just a soft, simple peck before pulling away, slowly dragging his hand out of her jeans. Lamenting the loss of his touch on her skin, she blinks away the haze of arousal to see him grinning down at her.

"It's late, Swan. Let's get you home."

He kisses her goodbye at the door, and it's harsh and needy and she wishes that she didn't want him as badly as she does because the whole point of this is to take time for _her_, to make sure this is what she wants, to make sure it's about more than just the way he pins her against her front door and grinds into her hips, or the way he sucks on her bottom lip and moans a little when she pulls him closer, or the way he says her name in her ear, panting and breathless and tender, his lips skimming across her jawline before he pulls away.

"I'll see you tomorrow, love."

It's a promise, she knows he means it, but that thought does little to still her beating heart as she fumbles with her keys in the lock. In the end it takes her three hours and her own hands (not as rough or callused as his would be) and a vivid imagination of what it _could_ be like with him (she's aching for _him_, not _this_) before she can finally fall asleep.

. . .

Something feels off the moment she walks into her apartment. After pulling a double shift at the station (thanks to Leroy and his…associates…getting into a fight at Granny's with some of Robin's…friends) Emma is exhausted and wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep until noon. But that sixth sense kicks in and she rests her hand over her hip, hovering near her gun (just in case) as she makes a quick sweep of the loft. The light is on over the kitchen sink, but she could easily have left that on herself, and aside from the quiet ticking of the clock over the fridge her house is completely silent. She moves upstairs slowly so the stairs don't creak, peering around the door before pushing it open.

Her room is a mess, and at first glance she thinks she's been robbed. Her instinct is to call the police, until she remembers that she _is _the police, and then she steps fully into the room and takes another look around to see what's missing. None of the furniture is out of place, the window is open but not broken, her jewelry is all still there – but there's clothing everywhere, scattered across the floor and her bed, her bras and underwear and…more underwear…

"Son of a bitch," she says aloud.

It looks like _someone _(she immediately assumes this someone has permanently sex-mussed hair and insanely blue eyes and a hook for a hand – who else would go straight for her panties?) has emptied her underwear drawer all over her room, and all she can think is why the _hell_ does she own this much underwear, because it's everywhere. The second thing she thinks is she's probably going to kill him - she's pretty sure he came in through the window, and he can't just _break into her apartment_ like that and make a mess while she's at work just because he's obsessed with her underwear, that is _not_ okay.

The third thing she thinks is that she is absolutely, _most definitely_ going to kill him, because one of her laciest bra and panty sets is laying out on her bed, like he set them out on display for her, with a note (it's obvious now that it's him, because the note is handwritten and fancy as shit and she's seen his handwriting on the maps in his cabin):

_Wear these for me, love. _

Arrogant pirate bastard.

. . .

She says it in the car as she drives to the docks, she chants it to herself as she walks to his ship, and she's all but shouting it as she hammers on his cabin door, angry that he broke into her apartment while she was at work so she has to come all the way over here to yell at him when all she wanted to do was go home and _sleep_.

The door opens.

"Arrogant bastard!" she shouts, descending the ladder into the room without even looking at him. She's ready to keep shouting when she spies a stack of lacy things in the center of the table, piled up like treasure. Recognizing them immediately (because she was horribly embarrassed that she even _bought_ them, let alone that he _found_ them, and they've still got the tags on them because she stopped on a whim last week and wasn't even really planning on ever wearing them and she was maybe probably going to return them), she rounds on him, a new lecture forming on her tongue, but he stops her with a finger over her lips, backing her into the table until the back of her legs hit the edge.

"Did you wear them?" he asks, his voice low and unreasonably sexy.

Emma sputters, face red with fury and humiliation (she really _doesn't_ buy lingerie like that), chest heaving because she's oddly out of breath, and all she can do is look at him for a few moments while she tries to regain control of the situation.

"I…you can't…"

"Did. You. Wear. Them." He taps her lips with each word, staring her down like he's going to devour her, and she thinks briefly that maybe she wouldn't mind it if he did.

It's the way his eyes are dancing that shakes her out of her temporary daze and gives her the presence of mind to shove him away, putting some well-needed distance between them. He's always too close and too warm and too…_much_.

"Damn it, Killian, you can't break into my apartment!" she says, a little out of breath, noting that his shirt is completely unbuttoned, untucked from his trousers (she very pointedly avoids looking at his crotch), and she unconsciously licks her lips. "And you definitely can't _steal my underwear_!"

He's grinning at her like he's been anticipating this response, and he takes a step in her direction, slow but deliberate like a predator stalking prey and Emma resists the urge to bolt. "Borrowed, love. With every intention of returning. But you haven't answered my question yet…"

"I'm being serious! I thought I'd been robbed – you can't just _break in_ whenever you want!"

"…and I think the reason you haven't answered me is because you _are_ wearing them, you just don't want to _say_ it…" he says, taking another step.

Emma feels like she's losing control of the situation (like she ever had it in the first place) and even though she wants to like it, that lost little girl still feels the need to lash out and take back whatever semblance of control she can get. "This isn't how this is supposed to _be_, Killian."

That stops him. Stops him dead, and for the first time in weeks – since they've started…whatever this is – he looks uncertain, hesitant, and Emma almost regrets the tone in her voice.

Until she sees her lingerie sitting on his table again, and then she's angry again because she's embarrassed and she's frustrated and she's had _enough_.

(She knows this is a bad idea but she has to do something and this is all she can think of.)

(That's what she tells herself, anyway, but deep down she knows it's more than that.)

"I don't do _fast_," she says, pushing off of the table and coming forward to put her hand on his chest. "I wanted to go slow, because I need time to…figure this out."

He's uncharacteristically silent when she pushes him into a chair and straddles his legs, and his eyes never leave her face, even when she reaches down to grab the hem of her shirt and pull it over her head.

"You _did_ wear them for me," he says with a satisfied smirk when he sees the black lace bra she's wearing.

_Of course she fucking wore them_.

She shakes her head at him and sits, adjusting in his lap (giving her hips a purposeful roll that makes him groan and squirm beneath her) so she can tug at his shirt and slowly drag it up his chest.

"But you had to be sweet," she says, and Killian sits forward and lifts his arms over his head so she can work his shirt the rest of the way. He's close enough that she can feel his breath on her neck, but he doesn't kiss her, just looks at her with a somewhat softened expression, like he's seeing her for the first time and he likeswhat he sees. When he looks at her like this she doesn't feel like the savior, doesn't feel like she has to play the hero. Here with him, she's just Emma. She rocks her hips again and she can _feel_ how much he likes it, and something about that gives her the confidence to keep going.

He rests his hand on her thigh, and she can feel his fingers grip tight and then slide up to her hip before running along the skin just above her jeans. "So beautiful, Emma," he mutters, finally allowing his gaze to drop to her chest, and she can almost feel the way the mood shifts, the way his breath catches, the hammering of his heartbeat as he memorizes every curve, every line.

Emma smiles but doesn't respond to the compliment, settling for rubbing her palms up and down his chest, and now she can feel how hard his heart is beating, almost in time with her own. She feels raised scars scattered over his skin, marks from another life – he's lived more years than any man ever should, and she knows that behind the bravado he carries centuries of pain in those blue eyes of his – and she wants to hear the stories, wants to touch him until the pain behind each and every one of them is all but forgotten.

"You had to make me laugh," she says, taking his head in her hands as she presses her lips to his forehead, his cheek, his jaw, barely touching his lips with hers before she kisses her way down his neck. His hand is more insistent on her hip, pulling her more firmly against him, and she lets out a low laugh and sits upright when Killian groans and bucks his hips into hers.

"You had to be charming."

"I'm not bloody charming," he says before he slides his hand around the back of her neck and pulls her in for a kiss – a solid, real kiss, more lips than tongue (though there's definitely both) and she moans into his mouth and pushes her chest against his until they're lined up from waist to shoulder.

"I'm a rake, love," he says, biting at her chin before his tongue and lips work their way down to her chest. "A bloody scoundrel." He bites at her nipple through the lace bra she's wearing, and she can feel his mouth moving over her but everything is too distant, every sensation muted. She reaches around her back to unfasten her bra in a moment of awkward arms and elbows, and then she lets out a long, low groan, because she can feel the wet heat of his tongue, his lips and his teeth searing her skin as he takes her nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing at its twin until Emma's hips are moving of their own accord, grinding down against him.

"Did you buy them for me, Emma?" He stops his ministrations long enough to wink at her before yanking her hard against his hips and tangling his tongue with hers, tilting his head to taste her, technique lost to passion as they move together, and Emma realizes that he's been holding back, because this is so much more than any of their previous kisses and she's feeling like maybe she's _not_ ready for this after all…

"Did you want me to see you in them, Emma? All lace and skin, so I can see every inch of you?"

Her eyes are closed and her head is tilted back, so she doesn't realize that he's looking at her until his mouth doesn't return to hers. She looks down and he's grinning with lust-filled eyes and those stupid damn eyebrows that never stop moving.

"Did you buy them for me, Emma?" he asks again.

She's embarrassed by how difficult it is for her to speak. Her hips are still moving restlessly into his, and her hands are grasping at his neck for something, _anything_ to distract her from the ache. "Yes," she says, running a hand through his dark hair and gripping it tight. "_Yes_, I bought them for you, you stupid, beautiful pirate."

More than once Emma's elbow nearly makes contact with Killian's face as they stand up and hastily undress, kissing and touching as they make their way to his bed. It's narrow but the mattress is soft, and the bedding smells like him. He buries his face between her legs, smiling like a fool as he brings her to an embarrassingly quick climax with the steady rhythm of his tongue over her clit and the pressure of his fingers inside of her, humming as he works over sensitive flesh until she's moaning and trembling beneath him.

She's barely come down when he finally, _finally_ pushes into her, his cock impossibly hard and hot as she digs her fingers into her shoulders and adjusts around him, focusing on the way he feels inside of her and the harsh sound of his breathing against her ear.

"Emma," he rasps, leaning on his left forearm so he can bring his good hand up to touch her face, rubbing her cheekbone with the backs of his fingers. His eyes are dark with lust but bright, so bright with something more that makes her heart feel like it's leaping toward his. "You know that I love you, don't you?"

He pulls back and then thrusts forward, tilting his hips at the end so he can go deeper, and Emma arches into him, overwhelmed by the very presence of him because she can feel him everywhere at once and she can't decide if it's too much or if she needs more.

"Yes," she says, lifting her legs up around his hips and pulling him closer.

Killian settles into a slower rhythm than she's used to, and every unhurried thrust, every involuntary moan that falls from his lips leaves her feeling slightly vulnerable because he's looking her in the eye, watching her face to see her reactions, furrowing his brow until he finds the right spot, and then smiling when he gets it just right and she bites her lip and groans, tightening her grip on his shoulders, raking a hand through his hair.

"More," she whispers, and he ducks his head down to kiss her neck, sliding his hand around her back to pull her against him, moving his lips in wet, open-mouthed kisses along the long lines of her throat, across her collarbones, nibbling at her shoulder with his teeth. She lifts her hips to meet his, and he picks up the pace. He isn't quiet, letting out soft sighs and moans of pleasure that she can feel in her chest every time they come together, and when she runs her fingernails down the length of his spine and back up again, he shivers against her, his hips stuttering a little.

"Bloody hell, woman," he groans, and in one swift movement that is far more graceful than it should be, he flips them over, coming up to a sitting position beneath her and wrapping his arms around her waist. "Move, Emma…I want to watch you."

She does.

And he watches her.

He watches as she rocks her hips over his, rubbing her back as she rides him and tries to bring him over the edge with her. He whispers words of praise in her ear, tells her how wet she is, how good she feels around him, how perfectly they fit together – she must have been made for him, he says, and at the moment she's inclined to agree – and he tells her how he's loved her, how he's wanted her for so, so long. Emma mirrors everything he says with quiet words of her own, only stopping when she gets close because it's been a long time since she's felt like this (she doesn't remember sex ever feeling _like this_) and she has to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

She feels his body curl into hers, feels his fingers dig into her hip when he comes, his head dropping against her chest as he lets out a heavy, broken sigh and shudders inside of her, tilting his hips into hers to ride it out. Emma reaches between them where their bodies are joined and gives herself that little bit of friction that she needs, and then she's falling, her free hand tangled in his hair as she tightens around him and drowns in the sensation of his lips on her skin and his cock inside of her and wave after wave of unbearable heat.

He holds her for a long while, both of them trying to remember how to breathe properly, and when he finally lays back she falls with him, sprawled out boneless and completely fucked-out over his chest. His fingers draw lazy circles on her back and she watches the steady rise and fall of his chest as her breathing slowly evens out.

"I love you," she says, loud enough that he'll hear it but quiet enough that the words don't scare her. Lucky she's too exhausted to run, or she might consider it.

"I thought as much when you bought those…what did you call them? Panties?"

Emma frowns. "You saw me buying them?"

He sucks in a quick breath through his teeth. "I…may or may not have seen you enter a certain shop, and then exit carrying a certain bag. After I saw what kind of establishment it was, I admit I was…curious, love."

Propping herself up on her elbows, Emma playfully slaps his chest. "You're an ass, you know that? You could have just said something, you didn't have to…_steal_ my lingerie."

Killian smiles and pulls her back down on top of him. "Lingerie," he says, trying out the word. "I like that better than panties." He settles deeper into the pillows with a satisfied smirk that makes Emma roll her eyes.

"Now," he goes on, as if they're having a very serious discussion and he's only just gotten started. "Since you went through the trouble of purchasing said _lingerie_, I think it only fair that I let you put them on for me."

"Ha! That you _let_ me. Nice."

"Don't worry, love," he says, kissing her forehead. "I'll be right here to help you out of them again."

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**Review? :)**


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